


Falsehoods

by DisposablePaperCup



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canonical Character Death, Chapter-Specific Warnings Included, Dissociation, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Flashbacks, Gaslighting, Gen, Hallucinations, I try and fix Star Wars' romance subplots, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jedi Training (Star Wars), Luke Skywalker is a Sweetheart, Manipulation, Mind Meld, On Hiatus, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parental Padmé Amidala & Anakin Skywalker, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Obi-Wan Kenobi, That's Not How The Force Works (Star Wars), The Force, The Force is Sentient (Star Wars), Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Trauma, Young Luke Skywalker, they get them, until I finish CW
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-19 07:33:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29747106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisposablePaperCup/pseuds/DisposablePaperCup
Summary: Luke imagines things a lot. Impossible things. Unreal things. Things he’s not so sure he’s just been imagining.He doesn’t admit it to anyone, because that’s how you get sneered at and scolded for making things up and spat at withfreakandweirdoandstop lying.Things like invisible snakes biting his friends in class and an ocean that can never be andI'm not Princess Leia I'm Luke I'm not Leia I'm Lukeand brown-robed men with wise eyes andI'm gonna be a Jediand coming home to find Stormtroopers burning down the farm.And when he thinksI want to go backhe imagines himself so farbackthat he hasn't even been born yet.He thinks this is probably the most vivid thing he's imagined yet.(Or: Between the easy way or the hard way, the Force decides to fix things the complicated way.)(NOTICE: On an indefinite hiatus until I get around to watching and finishing the Clone Wars)
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Luke Skywalker, Luke Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, Luke Skywalker & Everyone, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Luke Skywalker, Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 8
Kudos: 85





	1. let's do the time warp again

**Author's Note:**

> This story is plot-oriented, but part of that plot is the trauma and mental issues involved with the backstory/pre-story and as a result of said plot. Specific warnings will be posted in each chapter's beginning notes, so please read those for anything you might be uncomfortable with. Please don't read if there is.
> 
> Warnings are formatted:
> 
>  **CHAPTER WARNINGS** :  
>    
> **Major/Multiple mentions:** (these are warnings that are a large or overarching theme, or are mentioned multiple times. Non-graphic unless otherwise specified.)
> 
>  **Minor/few mentions:** (these warnings are minor and usually only mentioned once or twice, as part of the metaphors and minor flashback(the literary technique) sequences. Non-graphic unless otherwise specified.)
> 
> Also: In this story, Luke is a child. This means a few things, but mainly that his interpretation and processing of trauma will be more abstract and less rational than, say, an adult character experiencing the same trauma (Notably: Owen and Beru's deaths in canon, which occur much sooner in this story. Luke is 19 in ANH and therefore has a higher ability to process this than a Luke that is younger). So please keep that in mind when reading.
> 
> I'll be doing my best to write the existence, processing, and mental effects of trauma in this story. This is not exclusive to Luke's character, so varying points of view and interpretations, though possibly harder to write in a Luke POV, will be present and will be explored accordingly. Also: The Force is a fictional concept and is, of course, not present in reality, so some elements have been adjusted with this in mind.
> 
> With all that said, please enjoy :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CHAPTER WARNINGS:** (Non-graphic unless specified)  
>  **Major/multiple mentions:**  
>  Dissociation, gaslighting, flashbacks, emotional numbness, suicidal idealation(vague, multiple mentions), death, MCD, fire, burns, smoke, smoke inhalation, gunfire(blasters), blood, hallucinations, vomiting.  
>  **Minor/few mentions:**  
>  Suffocation/choking, sandstorms, snake bites/snakes, heat sickness/dehydration, hunger, executions(guillotine/axe, firing squad), plane crashes(ships), graves, burial, implied torture, self-worth issues, severe/fatal frostbite/hypothermia (semi-graphic, one-sentence mention).

Luke imagines things a lot. Impossible things. Unreal things. Things he’s not so sure he’s just been imagining.

He doesn’t admit it to anyone, because that’s how you get sneered at and scolded for making things up and spat at with _freak_ and _weirdo_ and _stop lying_.

When he was five he cried for a solid week because he was terrified he was choking to death in a sandstorm and his aunt and uncle couldn’t convince him that the storm was miles and miles away in the middle of the desert, that he was safe at home.

At six he made conversation daily with a neighbor who looked positively shocked to see him talking to her but was almost desperate for the company and when he told Owen he was given a fierce scowl and a reprimand that _This is not a joking matter_ and he learned the neighbor had died three weeks earlier.

Age seven, he gaped speechlessly at two men in brown that walked through a crowd of people like they weren’t even there, robes billowing around them like breathing things while they stepped straight through body after body - as if the people were ghosts, or as if they were.

At eight he screamed when a sand snake crawled up Biggs’ desk chair and bit his leg and when he pointed at it none of the other kids could see the blood streaming down his shin, so the teacher wrote him up and he was sent to bed early that night for getting in trouble. 

The day he turned nine he wandered off into the desert and found an ocean, vast and impossible, with the smell of what must have been the sea breeze in the air and soft, fine white sand underfoot. The waves flashed with gold and white and the sunlight bounced halos off its surface. Owen and Beru found him hours later at the edge of the farm, covered in sand and salt and delirious, vomiting, sick from the heat.

When he was ten he imagined he was halfway across the galaxy on a planet called Alderaan and couldn’t understand why everyone thought he was sick or tired when he wouldn’t answer to _Princess Leia,_ and later convinced himself it was a dream.

At age eleven he cried when the sand swallowed up the little white and blue droid he’d been speaking with as if it had never existed in the first place, as if he’d made it up- as if he’d _lied-_ and when he came home Beru had asked him why he left so suddenly earlier in the middle of their conversation. He had no idea what she was talking about.

When he was twelve he came home to find Stormtroopers burning down the farm.

He doesn’t think he imagined that one. It was too real to be imaginary. Too vivid and so clear that he swears he can still smell smoke burning, smothering, clogging his senses and sending tears spilling out of his eyes. That he can feel the molten heat that blisters his skin as the twin suns of Tatooine come down to the planet’s surface to burn it all alive. That he can hear ringing in his ears from the _shriek-bang_ of blaster fire and the _flick-wshh_ of a flamethrower and Beru and Owen and Luke himself all _screaming_.

There’s a burn on the back of his leg that’s fresh enough to ache when he touches it. He doesn’t think he imagined that.

He’s twelve and he’s curled into the tightest ball he can manage, bundled up in Beru’s poncho behind two spare vaporator tanks against the wall of the shed. It’s tight and uncomfortable and the poncho smells painfully strongly of smoke and his leg still burns but the numb buzz in Luke’s head spares him from the worst of it, blocks out the dull ache of grief and pain and disbelief in his chest. 

He hides until the troopers leave. Until the footsteps recede and the sharp gleam of sunlight on white beetle-shell armor is gone, until he can breathe without coughing into the hands clamped firmly over his mouth, until the sun starts to set and his stomach rumbles painfully and he’s starting to get a headache from dehydration.

When he comes out of hiding he stands among a smoldering field of fire and rubble and emptiness.

The smell of burnt hair like melted rubber makes him double over and gag and breathe sharply and far too quickly. He slaps his hands back over his mouth and nose and gropes blindly for a loose end of fabric to hold over his face and his eyes are watering and he’s wheezing and choking as he curls up into a ball and drops his forehead to the sand that’s colder than it ought to be.

Luke doesn’t cry. He knows better than to waste water.

Then there are steps that land like axes falling and severing head from neck, blasters firing and burning and killing, ships crashing onto packed sand as hard as stone in a blaze of fire and smoke and the burning scent of melting skin. A march in double-time pounding blood-stained footprints onto metal and steel and gravel and bringing with it a bell tolling and a bird shrieking in a keening cry of death. 

Luke looks up with his throat working around a lump that must be his still-beating heart and there’s no one there.

It might have been hours or days or weeks later when the Darklighters arrive. Luke’s curled up in Beru’s poncho in the shadow of the charred husk that is the house, trying not to waste food and energy by vomiting, and staring at a spatter of blood in the sand that he knows absolutely no one else can see.

There is no blood anywhere else. The fire burnt it all away.

Biggs’ mother, who smells like sand and sun and blue milk and has a name he can’t remember but knows it feels like freedom, shushes him gently and softly when he buries his head into her shoulder and she holds him while he shakes. Biggs isn’t there, which is good, because Luke knows he might start imagining things like snake bites and blaster fire and the stench of burnt hair on his hands if he had to open his eyes to say hello.

Biggs’ father, who Luke doesn’t know the name of but knows it must be strong and hearty and sounds like the rush of air over the desert, finds a shovel somewhere and starts digging a hole a few yards away from the house in a _shunk-chk_ of sand being stabbed into or rubbed along metal. The second sun is starting to dip below the horizon when he finishes two holes and someone else shuffles along to help move something away from the house and into the holes and Luke doesn’t look.

He’s carried to their speeder and keeps his eyes shut because then he can’t see the imaginings of double-time marching and the sizzle of an overheated blaster muzzle on skin and the wet splatter of blood on stone and all the sounds that ring in his ears like a shattering cacophony of hatred and suffering and torment.

Luke drifts, light and airy and away from himself, until he’s laid down and he stops drifting again.

The room is dark and smells like straw and cold sand and when he closes his eyes it almost feels like home, so he doesn’t. He stares at the wall on his side with an aching throat and blisters forming on his leg under a bandage and sharp-smelling yellow medicine and the scent of blue milk and cinnamon on his skin and the taste of sweets from the market that he could never afford to try in his teeth and tongue and the sound of blasters and flames and the snap of his broken leg from years ago and he wants to go back.

He wants to go back to say _Of course I’ll stay and help you with the farm today_ because at least then he wouldn’t have come home late and would have died with Beru and Owen the first time, rather than this slow, creeping tumor in his chest that he knows will choke the life out of him as slowly and painfully as possible over the course of many, many months. 

He wants to go back and say _How about you come with me to the Podrace today_ and they’d go together and laugh at the beginners’ mistakes and Beru would cover his eyes and gasp when a Pod crashes and Owen would mutter that he’s too young to be watching this but wouldn’t make them leave. 

He wants to go back and say _You’re going to die today_ and then he’d be called hysteric or dreaming or a liar and then Owen would get upset and make him go to bed early and Beru would tell him it’s alright it’ll be alright and then when they burn in the doorway he’ll burn much later when the smoke finally reaches his bed and he’ll be asleep so he wouldn’t even know.

He wants to go back and fix it, and say _I’ll stay and help_ or _Let’s go together_ or _You’re going to die today_ and leave with Beru and Owen and never talk about his imaginings again so Owen doesn’t send him off to see the Podrace alone because he’s being less helpful than unhelpful and Beru doesn’t give him her poncho that smells like cinnamon so he’ll be safe from the fire falling from the sky that he’s scared of because he saw it last week he really _did_ and he’s a big kid and is allowed to go places on his own without them.

He lies back and thinks _I want to go back_ over and over until it’s a blur in his head and his cheeks are wet even though _Don’t waste water in the desert_ and _You’re a big kid now and you shouldn’t cry_ and _It’s okay it’s going to be okay_.

And it’s _I want to go back I want to go back I want to go back_ in a haze of white and color and sounds that he’s just imagining so _stop lying it’s not real_ and-

 _I want to go back_.

-and then he stops thinking about anything at all.

\---

He wakes up and knows he’s imagining right away, because if he’s not imagining he’s dreaming, and he can’t be dreaming because he woke up.

Luke looks around at the place around him and thinks _I’m Luke my name isn’t Leia where am I Alderaan no I’m not on Alderaan I’m on Tatooine I’m home_ and knows he must be imagining very badly again. 

The ceiling is far, far above like a domed brass-bronze sky and there are pillars lining the hall that are impossibly tall and wider than Luke’s room was big and he has to blink away the glare of sunlight from the shining copper metal reflecting into his eyes. The floor is softer than Luke’s ever felt, even when he imagined silken white sand near an impossible ocean and reached down to run it through his fingers. 

He stretches out a hand now and rubs it delicately across the soft material, gray-blue like when the sun was just rising and Luke’s eyes went dull and gray and quiet and then a pale red like the paint on his model X-wing when the stripes were sunbleached and scratched and worn away. 

There’s sand on the carpet now, where his feet shuffled along and his sleeves scattered grains of it onto the blue, and there’s a smear of yellow-ish medicine from his bandage on his leg where it loosened and rubbed onto the red. Luke reaches down and tugs on the bandage, trying to wrap it back around and only succeeding in smearing more greasy yellow medicine onto his fingers and the floor and his pant leg where it started slipping down.

He fiddles with it until it becomes looser than ever and the blisters start to heat back up when they hit the air and he sits back onto the impossibly soft floor and stares at his hands.

There’s yellow stuck in his fingernails and in the creases of his hands, and the skin starts to go crusted and stained the longer he stares at it. A chunk of it is stuck in the line of his thumb against his palm and he watches as it starts to go hard and flaky. It smells sharp like ginger and ice and the snap of an antenna on an escape pod that leaves you drifting in space.

And then there’s, “Hello?”

Luke looks up and there’s a man standing there. He has long, red hair and smile-creased eyes and a warmth in his chest that feels like Luke’s standing near a bonfire and he’s been frozen for months in an industrial freezer while his captor laughs outside and his skin starts to break off in chunks. 

And there’s a look on his face that makes Luke think _Two men in brown that walked through a crowd of people like they weren’t even there, robes billowing around them like breathing things while they stepped straight through body after body-_ and the man stares at him with that look before glancing at Luke’s hands and the mess on the carpet.

A desperate apology bubbles up in Luke’s throat for ruining the softest thing he’s ever even seen that costs more money than Luke is worth, but the man is already crouching down with such a gentle look and a concern in his eyes that burns and saying, “Are you alright, youngling?”

He almost doesn’t answer because this is imagined, but he knows from experience that even imagined people don’t like being ignored, and Luke says, with a voice that’s rough like sand and gravel and smoke, “I’m not ‘youngling’.”

The man’s lips quirk and Luke feels almost irrationally happy at producing a smile, wants to try and make the man that feels like warm-not-hot sunlight and smells like seabreeze and soap smile again.

The man squints slightly like he’s seeing something that Luke isn’t and says, “No, you aren’t are you?” And it’s not critical at all, but gentle and soft like the carpet Luke ruined, “Where did you come from, little one?”

And Luke thinks _Don’t tell anyone your name or where you live_ and of warnings and worry and says, “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

The man’s lip quirks again at the corner but the warmth in his chest doesn’t move and Luke frowns, then, “Well. You can call me Obi-Wan, alright?”

There’s a pause and the man’s expecting an answer and Luke says, “Okay, mister Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan’s warmth flutters and Luke almost leans into it, for all the world suddenly feels like he's had frostbite all his life and his limbs are going purple and black and warmth is running through them with a painful ache that thaws his flesh and blood and he never knew.

“May I know your name?”

Luke wants to say no, because that’s what he was told to do, but the warmth inside Obi-Wan beats like a bleeding heart and all Luke wants to do is lean into it with all his being and wrap his soul up in the sensation of belonging.

So he says, “Luke.”

“Luke. Well. That’s a fine name, isn’t it?” And Obi-Wan smiles warmly while Luke doesn’t know if that’s a real question or not, “Now, how about we get you some new bandages and find someone to clean this up, then we can talk, alright?”

And Luke nods absently, because he’s got his eyes fixed at some odd middle distance where Obi-Wan is glowing like the sun reflecting off the sand and his entire body aches with warmth and light and like Beru and Owen did when they were happy before they were set alight with a warmth so strong it was fire because it was hate and death and greed and not happiness.

Then Obi-Wan’s face crumples in on itself and Luke wonders if Obi-Wan can somehow read his thoughts.

There’s a silent nod and Luke’s eyes go wide, startled, before Obi-Wan says, “I don’t mean to do it on purpose, little one. I am sorry if you’re uncomfortable with that, but,” A quiet, mirthless chuckle, “You’re broadcasting very loudly.”

Luke blinks, “Broadcasting?”

“Yes,” A pause, heavy and considering and feeling for all the world like the crowd taking a breath before his body hits the ground with a blaster hole in his head, “Would you mind if I looked?”

“Looked?”

Obi-Wan gestures vaguely at Luke’s entire body, who follows the gesture and inspects himself, finding nothing but sand and smears of sharp yellow and blackened fabric ends. Then he looks back at the warmth in Obi-Wan’s chest that pulses with every heartbeat and when Luke looks hard enough somehow radiates concern and worry and a deep sense of almost parental protection.

“Oh,” Luke says, and Obi-Wan nods slowly.

Then Luke’s nodding and Obi-Wan’s saying, “This might be a bit disorienting, but it’s alright,” and placing two fingers on his right temple and Luke’s leaning into the touch that spills a warm, soothing golden light into his head and then it's-

_Luke imagines things a lot. Real things. Tangible things. Things he knows he’s not imagining but knows it’s better not to admit it._

_When he admits it to people he’s sneered at and scolded for making things up and spat at with_ freak _and_ weirdo _and_ stop lying _-_

_At five he cried for a solid week because for a day he was trapped in a sandstorm that had happened decades and decades ago and couldn’t feel anything but the rush of gravel on his skin and the presence of a heavy, limp body by his back-_

_At six he spoke to a ghost that had died three weeks earlier and who glowed blue and spoke to him as if_ _he_ _was an impossible thing-_

_At seven he saw two men in robes that breathed like the desert wind and were colored like rich earth and he knew they weren’t from here and they’d left years and years ago-_

_At eight he saw his best friend get bit by a snake in class and weeks later when the same snake made to sink its teeth into his shin Luke was already dragging him away and all shaky limbs and beating heart that's not from adrenaline and let's go back, not today, Biggs-_

_At nine he walked to the ocean because he woke up that day convinced he could and felt water cold as ice and sand as soft as silk and breathed the air of freedom and belonging and I'm going to be a Jedi -_

_At ten he met his sister through a dream and they became each other for a day and nobody believed him when he tried to tell them through a bright, excited smile and woke up hours later longing for someone who was never there and who he'd never known and I miss you-_

_At twelve his family burned alive and he knew he’d never been imagining._

_-_ and then it’s _-_

_-memories that- aren't his- are his from another time another place and- run, hide, don’t let them find you- blue milk and cinnamon and burnt hair- blisters on his leg and arms and neck though he only ever ran through the fire and didn’t fall- and blaster fire and freezer burn and his public execution and his death over and over and over in different times and places- and people staring at him with hate and defiance and fear and desperation and he's not in his own body- and I want to go back I want to go back Send me back Send me back SEND ME BACK-_

-and then there’s a choked gasp and Obi-Wan is going pale, staring at Luke with a bloodless face and a quiver of the warmth in his chest that makes Luke's heart drop to his feet.

There's a distance to the world and Luke feels lightheaded and fuzzy. He’s starting to drift again, he knows, and soon he’ll be gone into a world of blurred shapes and color and people and voices that he does not have the wherewithal to recognize or react to.

And then Obi-Wan says, pale and breathless and wild-eyed, “I think we need the council for this.”

And Luke has no idea who or what that is, but can’t help but agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is meant to be kind of hard to follow/run-on, because it's from Luke's POV and since he's dissociating and attempting to process trauma while also going through something as convoluted and complex as time travel, it's reflected in the intended writing style. If it's too hard to interpret in places then please tell me and I'll try and clear it up!
> 
> Next chapter may be out after a while from now since I wrote this on a whim and am now planning an entire story from it and doing research to be able to tackle the sensitive topics involved (childhood trauma, gaslighting, dissociation, etc.) though some elements are drawn from personal experience.


	2. a world of pure imagination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke has a heavy blanket wrapped around his shoulders and is sitting on a bed that’s softer than any bed he’s ever sat on before. It’s a pure, clean white, like freshly fallen snow unblemished with blood or soot or the indented smear of something limp and heavy being dragged away. 
> 
> He thinks distantly that it must be a theme here, softness and cleanliness and beauty, and he’s glad he thought to imagine something so wonderful. 
> 
> It’s easier to think now, and he’s not sure why he was having trouble thinking before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CHAPTER WARNINGS:** (Non-graphic unless specified.)
> 
>  **Major/multiple mentions** :  
> Dissociation(moderately graphic, brief), panic attacks(moderately graphic, somewhat brief), emotional numbness.
> 
>  **Minor/one or two mentions** :  
> Referenced MCD, death, dead bodies, drowning, plane crashes(ships), smoke, fire, burns, trust issues, battlefields/military conflict, airlock death/suffocation, hunger, dead in space/adrift in space.
> 
> Other tags (not warnings):  
> Weighted blankets, crying, hugs (finally!), the Jedi Council.

Luke has a heavy blanket wrapped around his shoulders and is sitting on a bed that’s softer than any bed he’s ever sat on before. It’s a pure, clean white, like freshly fallen snow unblemished with blood or soot or the indented smear of something limp and heavy being dragged away. 

He thinks distantly that it must be a theme here, softness and cleanliness and beauty, and he’s glad he thought to imagine something so wonderful. He usually imagines things of smoke and confusion and terror and the splash of a limp body striking water and the rushing whirl of a TIE fighter hitting the ground at a spin. 

So this imagined world is nice, and his leg doesn’t hurt anymore because of something blue and wet and cold called bacta that mister Obi-Wan had a med-droid put on it, and his head is a little less fuzzy. Obi-Wan had to go speak with the council and call someone called Anakin, and even though his warmth and light receded a bit Luke feels better than he has in a long while.

It’s easier to think now, and he’s not sure why he was having trouble thinking before.

They took his poncho away, the Med-droid and Obi-Wan, and they promised _We’ll just have it cleaned and you’ll have it back, okay?_ and Luke agreed and now he’s wrapped in a rich blue blanket instead that feels like he’s coated in clouds and mist and cotton. He misses Beru’s poncho, though, and hopes he’ll get it back. Obi-Wan said he would but Luke knows sometimes grown-ups lie. He hopes Obi-Wan isn’t a liar.

The med-droid is in the corner stacking bandages and bacta pads in little white boxes with red crosses. It’s smooth and easy in a way that contrasts so harshly with the stuttering, grinding movements of the droids back on Tatooine that made him think that they had to be in agonizing pain, and it makes Luke feel oddly soothed.

The room feels familiar. It’s white and smooth-edged and sterile, and Luke knows he’s never seen someplace so clean before, but it feels like old imaginings and bandages and the smell of chemicals and someone saying _You’re going to be okay it’s going to be okay we’ll get him back-_ and _Jesus, kid what the hell happened up there where’s-_ and nothing at all because it hasn’t happened and won’t and none of them make it back alive.

He blinks and pushes the imaginings away, pulls his blanket around himself tighter because Obi-Wan said if he starts to drift again he should try and focus on the blanket instead because he was in shock. Luke’s not sure if he’s in shock anymore, or really what that means, but the word brings to mind imaginings that make him shudder and he rubs the fabric between his fingers. 

And then the door’s opening with a soft creak and Obi-Wan’s stepping back in and looking almost sympathetic and saying, “The Council is ready to see you, now.”

\---

The place he’s in is huge, bigger than even the main house on Biggs’ moisture farm and shinier than anything Luke’s ever seen. Like fireflies and gold-plated droids from dreams of family and the sunlight glaring off the barrel of a cannon and a call of _Fire!_

But the people are even brighter than that. 

There’s a small, green creature whose head is a beaming fog of blue and white and a man whose hand glows blue and whose light across his back creeps onto his shoulders and around his neck and a creature with a pointed head is illuminated in a spattering of yellow gemstones across his torso. Two empty chairs are filled with grainy blue holograms that don’t glow at all and feel like ghosts and whispers and imprints. The chairs are arranged in a surrounding circle that feels like a welcome and a verdict and a thousand constellations in orbit around the black-hole center of the universe. 

Luke stares wide-eyed and steps closer to Obi-Wan and resists the urge to grab at the man’s robes.

Then, “Master Kenobi, for what reason have you requested an emergency meeting of the council?”

The man with purple says it like it’s a verdict, and for all Luke knows it very well may be. His hand twitches by his side and he slides his foot half an inch closer to Obi-Wan, seeking solace in his golden warmth.

Obi-Wan says it almost tiredly, but with anticipation that’s impossible to ignore, “Master Windu, as you can see, I found a young boy near one of the meditation halls. He is exceptionally powerful in the Force and broadcasted very clearly,” A pause, “From what he showed me, I believe he comes from the future.”

There’s a range of shock and disbelief and inquiry and curiosity and something else that bubbles like blood and shadows in fog and the sour, diseased scent of illness. Luke steps even closer to Obi-Wan and reaches over to grab a dense handful of his robes and tugs the blanket on his shoulders tighter and reminds himself to apologize for it later.

Obi-Wan shoots him a glance he feels rather than sees and says, “I know it sounds-”

“Impossible?” Someone chimes in.

A nod, “Yes. However, I have good reason to believe it. The boy is hurt, yes. Physically and, to some degree, emotionally, but his mind and influence over the Force is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

A pause, then, croaked, “In your former padawan, did you not see it?” 

Obi-Wan seems to think about that before saying, “I do, Master Yoda. But Anakin has more ability and potential in the Force overall. This boy’s abilities are specific and may not have been consciously developed,” Then, “If I may be so bold, I believe that the Force itself has sent him to us.”

There’s silence for a good while, but not absolute silence. Luke can almost hear their thoughts swirling and contemplating and some frantically trying to understand but unable to. He can feel the disorienting wave of emotions that are so stoically masked like peeking behind a frosted window and being able to see almost clearly through. 

All eyes are pointed at him.

“Luke.”

He looks up through a fringe of dirt-stained blonde hair to Obi-Wan’s face. He looks sympathetic and calm and patient despite the unsteady flicker of the slash of heat in his chest. 

“Would you go wait outside, please?”

And Luke thinks _You are on this Council-_ and _Master Kenobi-_ and _I am very proud of you-_ and gives a small nod, forces his fist to release Obi-Wan’s robes and levels his gaze at the floor so he can’t see the eyes and the staring and the people who sit like ghosts with sizzling patches of light and color illuminated in punctured holes in their chests.

\---

The hallway is smaller than the first one he was in, but not by much, and the design isn’t much different. It’s less open and there’s not as much natural light and it feels like a funneling chokehold and there’s a warmth and heat and light beyond the doors that creeps through the cracks and the hinges like spring water.

Luke tugs his blanket snugly around himself and stands and waits. 

There’s voices beyond the doors, rising and falling and clashing like the shriek of TIE-fighters and X-wings in conflict and the shout of commands fighting to be heard over the constant stream of explosions and screams and blaster fire.

There’s a thought that comes unbidden when he looks at the doors, of _We do not grant you-_ and _What-?_ and _How can you do this_ \- and under it all there’s a taste like burnt rubber under his tongue and the shriek of something red and hot and buzzing slicing through the air in a deathly finality.

He shivers and wraps the blanket ever tighter. It’s heavy and thick and feels like it has beads inside, and it makes him feel tethered. 

It’s soft and clean and nothing like any blanket Luke’s ever held before, even the ones made of Bantha fur that Beru kept specially for holidays and colder nights so they wouldn’t get worn out. It smells faintly of fabric and soap and nothing at all. He rubs it with his fingertips below where 

he’s clenching both sides together tightly in his fist.

And then there’s the creak of the door opening and Obi-Wan leaning out and saying, “Luke? Can you come back in now, please?”

He waits a second before nodding. He truthfully does not want to come back, back into the room where strangers stare and bodies glow like stars and every cell of his skin feels itchy and rubs against his clothes and hair and breath and he has to hold himself still to refuse the urge to scratch it.

He shuffles over to the door anyway. He wonders if Obi-Wan would let him hold his robes again if he asked. 

But then there’s a hand being offered that sounds like the rush of wind over rock and sand and when he takes it it’s warm and familiar and feels like guilt and regret and absolution and atonement. It feels steady and strong and like a cold metal hilt replicated through the haze of mourning in half-remembered details.

The Council is completely silent when Obi-Wan and Luke come back in. Not the contemplative sort of silence that comes with _For what reason have you requested an emergency meeting of the Council-?_ but absolute and suffocating and all-consuming silence. The world of emotion and color and input has been closed off like being sealed out of an airlock and sent drifting out into the cold vacuum of open space and all the breath leaves his body as Luke shivers, leans closer to Obi-Wan and his glowing golden heartbeat.

The light is still there. And, despite the coldness, Luke gets the sense that if he were to push even the slightest amount, the emotions and sensation would rush back in like a crashing tidal wave. So he doesn’t.

And then, “What is your name, young one?” and it’s not addressed to Obi-Wan, but to Luke, who goes still and blinks wide eyes, and then Obi-Wan gives his hand a brief squeeze and there’s a burst of warmth that makes Luke un-tense slightly, like the first minute of thawing out in front of a fire.

It’s meek and quieter than he’d like but it comes out all the same, “Luke.”

The man with purple on his back and wrapped around his neck nods slowly, glancing at the floor in consideration with his fingers knotted together and his elbows resting on the arms of his chair.

“We have agreed to house and provide for you, Luke. You may not be a youngling, but these are,” A pause, “Extenuating circumstances, and you will be treated as such. Master Kenobi has agreed to watch over you and, should the need arise, train you in the ways of the Force.”

And Luke nods, slowly, because this feels vaguely like family and welcoming, but only barely, distantly, like the remnant taste of something savory on your tongue. It’s professional and clinical and closed-off and when he glances around he’s met with face after face frozen with no expression at all and Obi-Wan squeezes his hand again.

So Luke goes, “Thank you, sir,” and, quiet and meek as it is, the man with purple wrapped around his neck that stretches every time he moves his head acknowledges it with a nod.

Then it’s, “You may go,” and Obi-Wan is leaning forward deeply in a way Luke doesn’t quite recognize despite the sense of deja-vu that accompanies it, and they’re both moving out the door and away from the circle of neutral faces and staring eyes that betray interest and wonder and fear and back into the hall that feels just as open and wide and suffocating.

He doesn’t realize he’s breathing too fast until Obi-Wan squeezes his hand again and leans down, saying, “Are you alright, Luke?” and Luke sucks in a deep breath that chases away the lightness in his head and nods.

Obi-Wan doesn’t look convinced and gives Luke a once-over, then says, “We ought to get you settled, I think. You’ll be staying with the younglings and some of the newer padawans. They’ll be a bit younger than you, I’m sure, but you should get along just fine.”

And they start walking down the hall, Obi-Wan glowing like a beacon for sailors to watch for in a storm and Luke’s tiny hand held in his, warmth leeching through his fingertips. Luke wonders if Obi-Wan even realizes he’s doing it. 

He gets a glance down and a smile and a brief squeeze from Obi-Wan and Luke feels the remainder of the fog in his head brush away.

He looks up at Obi-Wan and smiles.

\---

The clothes he’s wearing are like his Tatooine clothes in all of the ways that don’t count. The robes are less loose and flowing than Obi-Wan’s or Luke’s old, soot and sand-stained shirt, and there’s a tunic that goes over top and is cinched at the waist by a belt. The boots are leather and the fabric is thick and Luke wonders if they ever get hot in the summer.

And it feels familiar and completely alien and like sand, salt, sea and longing, almost, but not quite, because you can’t really long for something you have.

He stands in front of the mirror and stares at himself, watching his face carefully as though it’d warp and shift into someone completely different when he dares glance away. 

And then, “Luke? Ah, there you are,” and there’s a bundle of fabric being pushed his way and Obi-Wan is saying, “We had to wash it twice to make sure it was clean for you, I hope that’s alright.”

So Luke takes the poncho back and rolls the fabric between his fingers and finds it cleaner and softer than it’s ever been. It’s nowhere near as clean or soft as the carpet in the hall or the white fabric of the cot where the Med-droid works but it’s softer than he’s ever felt it before, even after Beru bargained for soap one month and they washed all their clothes in water that was cloudy and smelled fresh and faintly bitter.

He presses it up to his face and inhales and finds the smell of flowers and soap and the cool breeze over treetops and nothing else at all.

An ache forms in his chest.

Obi-Wan gives him a look and tilts his head and asks, “Is something wrong?”

And Luke thinks _You’ll have it back-_ and _For you-_ and _I hope that’s alright-_ and shakes his head while Obi-Wan frowns.

“Come now, little one. I’ve trained a padawan who was just like that, not telling someone when something is wrong. I won’t be upset if there is.”

But Luke isn’t sure how. He opens and closes his mouth a few times and tries to say but can only think _It smells like flowers and soap instead of sand and cinnamon-_ and _I’m grateful I really am but-_ and _Your uncle bought me a present this week, Luke, how would you like to help me do some baking-?_ and _I wanna go home._

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Obi-Wan is crouching down and shushing him and gently folding him into his arms and he thinks _Don’t waste water-_ and _You’re a big kid-_ and _It’s okay-_ even as he buries his face into Obi-Wan’s shoulder and reaches his arms around his back.

There’s a second where Luke is stiff and tense before Obi-Wan says, “It’s okay,” and Luke thinks _It’s going to be okay-_ but then it’s, “You can cry if you need to.”

And Luke thinks _Don’t waste water in the desert-_ but he’s not in the desert anymore and he feels more heat drip down his cheeks and soak into Obi-Wan’s shirt and he’s about to apologize when Obi-Wan speaks.

He sounds sad and almost pained when he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize, but I should have asked regardless.”

And Luke thinks _You’re broadcasting very loudly-_ and shakes his head and tries to say _It’s okay I’ll be okay-_ and doesn’t say anything at all.

Obi-Wan holds him there in a circle of arms and a burning, bright, warm light up against his chest like an apology and a welcoming and the first new sprouts peeking out from the ground when the snow starts to thaw in Spring.

Then he slowly draws back and wipes a sleeve over his face and sniffles in a way that’s more like a snort and Obi-Wan says, “We can try and fix it, if you like.”

And Luke shakes his head because he doesn’t know if that’s possible and it won’t be the same, but he doesn’t say those things and he doesn’t even think them, just lets his mind stay blurry and tear-stained like wet ink running down a page and steps back.

Obi-Wan looks upset, but Luke knows it’s only the second-hand kind of upset you get when someone is hurting or you’ve hurt someone else without meaning to. There’s a moment where Obi-Wan just looks at him and the light in his chest feels like guilt and regret and something deeper there that Luke can’t name and then there’s a sigh and Obi-Wan is standing up.

Luke looks at him with red-rimmed, puffy eyes and wipes his nose again and Obi-Wan makes a considerate sound.

Then, “Well, you’re all dressed now. Go ahead and grab your blanket to bring with us and we’ll find you a room.”

And then Luke’s holding his poncho in one hand and over his shoulder and Obi-Wan has his blanket in just one and Luke’s hand in the other while they walk down the hall.

The door they enter is smaller than the Council’s by such a huge margin that Luke thinks of how Biggs’ house used to look so much bigger than Luke’s and now Luke’s seen things that are a hundred times bigger and plated in bronzed metal and layered with the softest fabric imaginable. 

The room is full of beds, larger than Luke’s old one almost by double, and stacked one on top of the other. There are at least six double-beds that Luke can see, most in varying states of mess and more than one with evidence of occupation scattered on the covers. 

And Obi-Wan says, “You’ll be staying here, with some of the older younglings in the creche and some of the younger padawans,” Then he’s walking to the end of the right-side aisle and finding one of the bunks that has two made beds and nobody there at all and placing his blanket down, “Here we are. This should do, I think.”

He gestures Luke over and offers out a hand before hesitating and Luke hands the poncho over without any fuss. Obi-Wan looks vaguely conflicted and pained at that before shaking it off and carefully folding the poncho over the end of the bed frame.

And then it’s, “It’s past evening meditation. We should be heading to dinner soon, I think,” with a glance at the windows that are more like holes in the thick, stone wall and, “You must be hungry.”

And Luke thinks _Until the sun starts to set and his stomach rumbles painfully-_ and nods, one hand instinctively going up to squeeze the fabric near his stomach just above a forgotten ache. Obi-Wan’s face twists with concern and Luke makes his thoughts fuzzy again.

But then, “Let’s hurry then, and not keep you waiting any longer.”

So Luke takes the offered hand and Obi-Wan leads him back out the door and down the hall and back through the bronzed metallic columns and pale red and blue floor and through a series of turns and paths that Luke can hardly keep up with until they start to approach an open archway with sounds like the clinking of metal on glass and happy shrieks of laughter and conversations muddling together. 

It’s overwhelming and swarming and stifling like the heat of two suns in the Summer and the heavy drumbeat of rain falling through a thick jungle canopy and the chatter of creatures with spears and rocks and drums and fires with spits for roasting. Luke finds himself focused far too intently on his breathing and Obi-Wan’s hand in his.

And then Obi-Wan leans down slightly and says, “Would you like me to come in with you?” and Luke’s shaking his head before he even finishes the sentence.

And Obi-Wan says, concerned but unsurprised, “Would you like me to bring you a plate instead?” and Luke’s nodding.

There’s a brief second where Luke doesn’t let go of Obi-Wan’s hand as he stands to leave, but he does, and the warmth seeps away like a sand timer and a puddle leaking into the ground and the gasoline and carbon monoxide and salty adrenaline scent of the hatch being stuck and the fuel line leaking.

And then Obi-Wan says, “I’ll just be a moment,” and walks away, and when he enters the hall there’s a cry of “ _Master Kenobi!_ ” and a surge of joyful emotion that makes Luke suck in a sharp breath with the collective intensity of it.

Then there’s a hand raising and dropping when there’s no presence of heavy blue fabric and Luke wishes he’d brought his blanket with him.

He starts to blur, with the warmth and weight and presence gone and the wide-open space and open doorway with the sounds of a million voices loud enough to deafen start to go silent as his thoughts fuzz over and drift away.

He watches himself watch the floor with his hands clenching at nothing and a hand on his shoulder carefully leading him over to the wall to slide down and find the floor and put his head between his knees.

He breathes slowly, inhale and exhale, while a gentle voice coaches him from above.

“There you go, kiddo. Nice and easy.”

And then there’s, “Luke? Oh, dear.”

A sharp clatter of glass on the ground, but not broken, and there’s hushed whispering and a close warmth and a hand on the back of his head brushing his hair and Luke keeps inhaling, exhaling, and tries to bring himself back into the present.

And then it’s, “Are you alright?” and gray-blue eyes full of concern and another voice saying, “He’s really out of it, huh?” and then Luke’s nodding slowly and Obi-Wan frowns.

There’s, “Has this happened before?” and, “Once, I think. But I’m not sure,” and, “Poor little guy,” as he leans his head into the contact of Obi-Wan’s hand and struggles to keep himself in his body.

And then it’s, “Here,” and something is being shoved into his face and he’s leaning into it, wrapping an arm around it and pulling it close to his chest and reveling in the sensation.

There’s, “Why did you have that?” and, “It worked, didn’t it? And I got word you’d picked up a kid so I grabbed it on my way here.”

Then Luke slowly lifts his head from the fuzz and fabric and looks over the stuffed Bantha toy that’s blue with pink dots instead of brown, and glances over to large, rich blue eyes and white and orange and the figure crouching down next to him is saying, “Hey, kiddo.”

And Luke thinks _Hey there, Snips-_ and _You’re a good soldier-_ and _To wield it takes a great deal of training and discipline-_ and he blinks and there’s a hand being offered his way.

And then it’s, “Ahsoka Tano,” and a smile that feels like the rush of adrenaline and the buzz of two sabers in hand and the cry of a name, desperate and mournful and voice cracked, and then it’s, “You must be the famous Luke I’ve heard so much about.”

And, “Hello,” he says it quietly, like everything else he’s said so far, and knows his ragged throat is only partially the cause.

And Ahsoka shoots a look at Obi-Wan with raised brows that feels like amusement and concern and _Wow this kid is adorable-_ and Luke blinks when there’s a hand gesturing at the toy still cradled to his chest.

“You go ahead and keep that, alright?” Then, to Obi-Wan, “Skyguy should be here soon. He’s gotta finish up with whatever they’ve got him doing first, though. What did you need us to talk about?”

And Obi-Wan pauses, hesitates, and, “It’s a sensitive matter. Something the Council allowed me to tell Anakin and you and no one else. Do you understand?”

There’s a gravity to the statement that feels like the blare of a red-light alarm and the screech of a dying rocket and _We’re dead the engine’s dead-_ and the planet’s atmosphere dragging back down and Ahsoka no doubt feels it, eyes widening and flickering to Luke for half a second.

Then she sighs, and says, “Oh, joy. Sensitive matters are always fun.”

And Luke pulls the toy back to his chest and squeezes until he can feel his fingers going purple as his stomach growls and Obi-Wan offers him the plate from before.

He takes it and keeps the toy on his lap and eats like a man who knows it won’t matter if he’s eaten his fill or not since he’ll be dead in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> \- Welcome to: How long can Paper write this story until they actually have to stop and watch the Clone Wars?  
> \- Weighted blankets are the _shit_  
>  \- Yes Obi is the padawan/youngling father figure no I don't take criticism  
> \- I've never seen TCW so I'm gonna have to watch at least some of it so I can write Ahsoka and some plot stuff properly, so her lines/character in this chapter might be edited later on.  
> \- Next chapter is going to be longer, I think, if I can stop being impatient about posting and get through everything I want to.


	3. Interlude I: The Homestead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s a good day, and Beru sees no reason not to let Luke go to the Podraces_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **CHAPTER WARNINGS:** (all minor)  
> Implied canonical character death, poor parenting, very minor implied mention of hallucinations (Luke).
> 
> Other Tags:  
> Beru & Owen, Beru POV, moisture vaporators are weird, Luke's actions and behavior from an outsider POV (brief)

The day is cooler than usual. There’s only moderate wind, and the humidity levels are at least 12% today, higher than it typically is. There aren’t any clouds, of course, but it’s almost evening and the twin suns are starting to lower near the far horizon, and the shadows are long and cool, only soon to lengthen. 

If it were any other planet, it would be considered a heat crisis. But for Tatooine? It’s a good day, and Beru sees no reason not to let Luke go to the Podraces.

He runs up to her with the request, feet kicking up bursts of sand with every step and with a smear of dark, oily grease on his face. She considers it while she licks her thumb to lean over and wipe the smudge off his cheek.

The day is nice, yes, hot and humid, but the evening will be cold, dry, and dark. And Beru and Owen are too busy to come with him. Still. Beru purses her lips and sends him into the house to grab her poncho while she calls to Owen. He leans around the moisture vaporator he’s sticking a wrench into and his brow creases.

“He should be helping us here,” He says, frowning.

And Beru says, “He’s been working hard lately. He deserves a break.”

Owen considers that with that half-scowl of his, then says, “Fine. Just have him back before sundown.”

She nods as Luke skids back outside, a bundle of tan fabric flung halfway around his shoulder and the rest being juggled in arms much too small to carry it. Beru clicks her tongue and comes over to adjust it, wrapping it around one shoulder and tying the ends near his hip, so he can carry it until the temperature gets cold enough to be worn.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” Luke asks, big, blue eyes wide as he tilts his head. His gaze flickers to something behind her and his face shutters. Beru doesn’t turn to look.

Then Beru says, with a sort of frown, “We can’t, Luke, I’m sorry. We'll go next time, together, the lot of us. But you’re a big kid now, and if you go to the Darklighters’ house you can ask Biggs and his brother to come with you. Can you do that?”

And then Luke’s attention is snapping back to her and he’s giving a vigorous nod as Beru presses a kiss to the top of his head, making sure he has his pocket money as he dashes off through the stretch of desert that separates the Lars’ and Darklighter homesteads. 

Beru turns back to her work with a sigh, scrubbing a dry bristle brush along the metal paneling from the filter that had broken. Sand comes off in chunks, where leaking condensation had clumped it together against the inside of the vaporator and clogged the mechanism. 

Then Owen is saying, “You’re too lenient with that boy, Beru,” though he’s not looking up from his work.

And Beru frowns, “He’s just a boy, Owen. He deserves to have some fun once in a while.”

Owen snorts, shakes his head, and the ratchet wrench clicks forward and back five times with a slide and grind of metal-on-metal.

“He won’t get much free time when he’s older, you know,” She continues, reasonable and practical to the last, “He might as well have it now.”

And Owen makes a noise that sounds like a grudging affirmation, and Beru turns back to her brush and paneling and starts scrubbing again with vigor.

The metal handle of the brush is worn smooth and dull where she places her palm, and the light of it flashes in the sun. The bristles are thick and hardy, rough against skin with sparse steel wool fibers scratching against the paneling with an occasional grating shriek.

She loses herself in her work, thinking of the chores that must be done and Owen’s recent foul mood from Kenobi’s latest visit and Luke’s ‘visions’. Beru bites her lip and frowns, scrubs harder at a patch of particularly stubborn sand that flakes away to reveal rust underneath, and she scowls. Scrubs harder, ignoring the burn in her arms.

And then Owen is saying, “Are we expecting anyone?” and Beru is turning around to see the sun glinting off white armor like flares and she knows that there will not be a next time to go to the Podraces again.

_(Luke knows he must be imagining this, when he stands and stares and watches it, looks to the horizon that does not belong because there is only one sun and there is no rolling desert or cinnamon or sand, but he feels the hot burn of heartache all the same.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Interlude chapters are just going to be really short/filler mostly, since I've not been able to watch the Clone Wars and I didn't want to put off writing something new for this fic for too long. These chapters are skippable, but I'm planning on throwing some little tidbits of plot that didn't make it into the major cut or just fun/feelsy/etc. snippets that exist in this universe.
> 
> Also: Beru and Owen aren't the _best_ parents, which is to be expected when you're raising a psychic force-sensitive child in the middle of the desert with the help of whatever parenting books you can get your hands on and the advice of a traumatized space wizard, so. Yeah. Still not great or excusable, but it's meant to help explain some of Luke's behavior in previous chapters and later on.
> 
> The writing style is different here because it's not from Luke's POV, which is kind of all over the place. This is an intentional difference and the POV will be back to Luke's next chapter, which will be a full one (though it will be a while until then).

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a kudos/comment if you enjoyed! Feedback gives me motivation to write more :)


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